Is It Wrong To Pick Up Girls In A Graveyard?
by IndigenousGhost
Summary: "My name is Elvira Castle and I'm-" "A BITCH!" "SHUTTHEFUCKUPDEAN. An amnesiac." "OOooooh fancy words." I'm gonna deck him. (Follows Season 13, so ... spoilers, obviously)
1. Something Wicked

**Chapter 1: Something Wicked**

So, like, no big deal. And this is just me throwing this out there. But I have no idea who I am or where I am or what the hell I'm doing. So there's that. Yay.

The room seems endless, in shades of black, gray, and metallic steel. Like a ceaseless monochrome library. Each aisle is labeled with a letter, each shelf filled with thin black books that look exactly alike. I've thought about touching them, but some base instinct warns me not to, like it would be the end of me. And, gee, wouldn't want that. I nearly snort into the suffocating silence, but swallow the sound. Another one of those oh-so-helpful instincts tells me to make as little noise as possible.

Sometimes, when the cloud cover over my mind lightens a little, I wonder when it will end, why I'm here, things like that. Things I should know, but for some reason don't. I learned not to linger on the thoughts though. I learned that the hard way. Linger too long, suffer the consequences, in the form splitting headaches, weak body, and severe shortness of breath. Just what everyone fucking needs. Hitting stores near you when you try to remember who you are! God, I'm hilarious.

Part of me wonders if maybe I'm dead. This could be the waiting place between life and the afterlife. Maybe I'm waiting for someone to collect me or judge my sins or whatever. That begs the question what asshole decided to take the day off and leave me here to my devices. They should be fired for incompetence, but I guess that's not up to me.

I could have been here for days, weeks, when I stumble across the desk, just past the W's section. It's empty. And a little part of me sighs in relief. Whatever lives here, works here, whatever it is, gives me the heebie jeebies. It doesn't help that I have the distinct feeling that someone is watching me. Maybe they've been watching me since the beginning. A chill rolls down my spine at the thought.

"You don't belong here, do you, girl?" a rich female voice, that is both cold and sweet echoes into the room, filling the deep stretching silence. Oh, I do not, I repeat, do not, like the sound of that.

My feet almost keep moving, so used to the mindless walking, but I force them to stop, and almost trip at the sudden halt. But I do stop, and steady myself. Taking a deep breath and telling myself 'Don't fucking cry. Don't fucking cry,' I wheel around to face her.

Rich satiny umber skin, crimson lips, passionless calculated ebony eyes, and shiny black curls that reach her chin. She's dressed in a fine suit. A large peculiar white ring sits on her finger and her arms rest boredly at her sides, almost like I'm a fly she's been forced to deal with. She scans me head to toe.

Okay, to be honest, I'm not all that impressive. Tall for a girl, long curly copper hair, pale creamy skin, olive green eyes, and delicate features. Again, no big deal here, but every molecule of my body is screaming for me to get the hell away. Out. Out. Out.

"How did you end up here, girl?" she asks. Her voice sounds like she couldn't care less, but there's something else. An undercurrent of … desperation maybe.

"Trust me, Lady, if I could tell you, I would," I say, cracking a smile, "Seeing as to how I have no recollection of how I ended up here, alas, I cannot."

"I find it difficult to believe you conveniently forgot how you ended up in my reading room," her drips skepticism. Which just makes me wanna roll my eyes and say, 'I get it. You don't believe me. Huzzah for you … bitch,' but I hold my tongue.

Instead, I say, "I barely have a concept of who I am, let alone how I got here."

"Do you?" she lunges forward, and before I realize, she has one arm wrapped around me, the other silky smooth palm is pressed against my forehead.

There are no words that exist to describe the agony that swept through me, paralyzing me in place with a blinding darkness. I'm dimly aware of someone screaming, a long shriek of sheer desperation, and it occurred to me it might be the both of us. An image, just one, flashes before my eyes. A pair of endless depthless blue eyes. And a voice that resonates with power and sounds all at once ancient and young, silky and haggard, strong and soft says just one word. _Daughter_. Something ancient, something powerful has it's beady little eye trained on us. Just as my spine feels like it's about to shatter, the power that seized us seems to leave as quickly as it hit. We clatter to the floor, heaving. On teetering legs, I push myself to stand. The woman does the same.

"What are you?" she asks, her voice an odd mix of unyielding rage and breathless awe.

"I'm-I'm just a girl," I stumble. The fog over my mind slips up, for just a second, but long enough for two words to slip through, "My name is Elvira Castle. I – I really don't know who I am or how I got here though."

"Well, Elvira Castle," she says, her voice a dark force of nature, reminiscent of a brewing typhoon, or a raging forest fire, "Since I can't touch you, let's just leave you to fate. But I will be watching you." She presses two fingers to my forehead.

I feel nothing, an odd sense of weightlessness, then I see dark trees and headstones. The sky above is pitch. I hold back a scream. I hate cemeteries. Terror grips me. Alone. In a cemetery. Alone! In a cemetary! I resist the urge to scream. Something about being around the dead unnerves me, more than unnerves me, sends me running in the opposite direction. And here I am, surrounded by them.

"Alright, Sammy," a gruff male voice with the slightest twang says, "Let's light 'er up. Goodbye Madame Landon."

I hear the scrape of a match being struck and not twenty feet from me a little light flares up. The match, a full book of matches really, falls into a hole and huge flames leap up. It illuminates the speaker, who's with another guy. I don't feel so good. My stomach rolls unpleasantly, and a headache stabs my head. I lean heavily against the nearest tree. Great, just what I need. The world spins and I slide just a little.

Two men fill in my swimming vision. I may be tall, but these two fuckers are downright massive. The taller of the two has long dark hair, deep coffee brown eyes, and a somber mouth. The shorter (and prettier one, in my opinion) has short blond hair, eyes so green they're like forests, and a full almost-feminine mouth. I stumble towards the shorter one as my vision dims. They glance at each other in tandem before looking back at me.

The world slides unpleasantly as I fall into the arms of the shorter guy. He grunts as he catches me. He smells like whisky, and gunpowder, and leather, and his own masculine musk. My stomach heaves and it takes everything in me not to spew chunks all over his navy jacket. It's not a bad smell, just a strong one, one I'm not used to.

"Help me," it slips from my mouth before I can stop it.

Then I slide into unconsciousness and hope I didn't stumble into some weird freaky sex cult. Although, with the way those guys looked, that may not be such a bad thing.


	2. It's Actually Kind of a Grey Area

**Chapter 2: It's Actually Kind of a Gray Area To Pick Up Girls In a Graveyard**

A groan rolls from my lips. I hear the clatter of people bumbling around, and masculine voices. Everything is muffled and distant though, like I'm under several feet of water. My eyes snap open and I toss and turn wildly, trying to get a grip on my surroundings. Where the fuck am I? I open my mouth, trying to say something to the incoherent voices, but all that comes out is a loud groan. Great! First my memory, now my means of communication. Just fucking peachy. Not to mention the wicked dry mouth and throat. It feels like someone stuffed a cup of pure cinnamon down my throat.

"Hey hey hey," the dark haired man from the graveyard rushes to my side, "Don't try and move."

All that leaves my mouth is a groan. God, this is gonna get annoying real quick. Water, I need water. The man wraps his arms around my torso and helps slide me into a semi-upright position. Better. The thick distant feeling over my senses abates a little.

Enough that I can croak out, "Wa-ter."

"Dean," the dark haired one orders, "Get some water."

My eyes follow the direction he started talking. The shorter guy, Dean, gives the dark haired one a clearly unhappy look before pushing himself off the wall he was leaning against and stalking away. God, what bug is up his ass? I shift my attention back to the one who's actually being helpful.

"What's your name?" the dark haired one asks. His face is oddly gentle, like he's used to this sort of thing, picking up girls in graveyards.

"Wa-ter," I croak out again. So he knows I'm not really in a position to answer his questions and I'm not just being a bitch.

"Of course," he says, "I'm Sam. That was my brother, Dean."

There are so many questions I have and all of them will have to wait. Plus, it just seems like a bad idea to bombard these guys with questions. I'm not sure I really want all the answers I'm asking for. Dean stalks back into the room, clearly shooting me a filthy look as he hands Sam a big glass of water before taking up his position leaning against the wall. What a fucking dog. He's acting like some macho guard dog with his muscular arms crossed over his chest, eyeing me with obvious distrust.

Sam raises the glass of water to my lips. I want to take the glass and swat his hands away, but this is probably best. I don't know how my muscles would handle it. I'd probably dump the glass on myself. That would be just my fucking luck. I gulp down the glass of water in seconds.

"My name is Elvira Castle," I say, my voice still hoarse. Though it's distinguishable now.

"Who are you?' Dean growls. What a brooding mess. There's something about him though, maybe it's the dead look to his eyes, the look of someone so lost, so broken, there's no hope of ever being healed. It pulls at my heartstrings. That doesn't give him the right to be an ass though.

My head whips to face him, "I just fucking told you, jackass."

"I think, well, what he meant was what were you doing in the graveyard?" Sam asks, his voice gentle. "We just want to know what happened."

I look back at Sam, "I – I don't know. I was – well, it was like a massive filing cabinet that went on forever. Then I met this woman. Dark hair, dark skin. She had this weird white ring on her finger. And she touched me. And …" I trail off as those endless eyes flash before me and that voice reverberates in my mind, paralyzing me … _daughter_. The whatever-it-was leaves in an instant and I stammer out, "I – something happened. Then she said she was going to leave me to fate. She touched my forehead. And all of a sudden I was in the graveyard. Speaking of which …do you guys just do that?"

Sam looks confused, "Do what?"

"Pick up random girls in graveyards?" I ask, "I mean, isn't that a little … dubious?"

"Not usually," Sam says with a little smile, "And it's actually kind of a grey area."

Dean ignores our little exchange and jumps in, "You met Death?"

Okay … how high are these two? Or insane. Insane seems like a viable option. Dean seems a little unhinged. They talk about death like it's some animate conscious thing. I look between the two brothers, trying to catch a hint of a laugh, or the twitch of facial muscle, anything to tell me they're screwing with me. Please, let them be screwing with me. Something tells me these two are serious as a heart attack.

"Uh … what are you talking about?" I say, and try as I might to keep it steady and firm, my voice quakes a bit.

"Capital D, Death," Dean growls out, "Big Mama Grim Reaper. That's who that woman was."

I look at him and say dryly, "Clearly you're not mentally stable."

Dean shrugs, "Okay, don't believe us. It's your ass on the line."

I push myself out of Sam's arms and onto rickety legs. The dark-haired brother shoots to his feet, prepared to catch me if need be. But I'm angry now. I stalk over towards Dean – well, in my head I stalk, what I actually do is probably a lot more like stumbling – until I'm almost chest to chest with him. He doesn't move an inch or even bat an eyelash. That only infuriates me more, cocky stuck-up son of bitch.

"You sir," I bite out right into his face, "Are a grade-A, asshole."

He leans forward until we're almost nose to nose, "Right back at ya, sweetheart."

I whirl to face Sam, "I'm hungry. Do you have any food in this God forsaken place?" Anything to get away from Dean and his salty ass attitude.

Sam frowns, "Not right now. We actually need to do a supply run. Dean and I will go get food, and you can wait here."

There's a special tick in Dean's jaw that tells me he's not thrilled to leave me wherever here is. And I, for my part, get a special kind of satisfaction out of that. I have a feeling that pissing him off is going to be a new favorite pastime of mine. That is, if they let me stay. For some reason the idea of them turning me loose, alone, with no idea who I am, or what to do, makes my pulse race. My breathing starts to quicken as I watch the two men exit the room. They're gone before I can say or do anything. I drop onto the bed. A wave of emotions washes over me. I feel helpless and lost. It hits me like sucker-punch to the gut how little control I have over my life right now.

Slowly, I heave myself off the bed, determined not to waste into my own fears. I decide to explore this place. The bedroom is sparse with only a desk, a dresser, and a bed made up with military green blankets and pillows. There are two old guns, classic pistols that hang on the wall behind the bed. The floor is wooden, probably oak or something, very worn and cold beneath my feet. One of the brothers, probably Sam because God knows Dean wouldn't help, took off my socks and shoes. They now sit neatly beside the door.

I leave the room. I decide this is an abandoned military building, as I peek around in rooms. Everything is sparse, sharp, and utterly utilitarian. Weapons of varying degrees hang from the walls. When I reach the huge main room, I realize my guess is utterly correct. At the end of the room, or rather the beginning, there's a staircase leading to a platform with two tea chair and a table, and on the other side of the platform a big metal door. Somehow, I know that the door leads outside. There's a large table in the middle of the room inlaid with a light up map of the world. On the wall there's a bigger, more detailed map of America, set with all sorts of pins and pictures. Not to mention the cold-war era computers set into the walls beneath the America map, and against the opposite wall.

Spread open on the table are old books. I lean over them. There's some shit about Nephilim, angel-human hybrids. Just what the fuck are these two into? Did I stumble into some weirdo religious cult? Oh, I hope to God not. I would have to nope the fuck out of here real quick. I don't do Jesus. Some of the books are written in languages I don't understand. But the Latin and Ancient Greek, those I read as easily as English. Okay. I know that's not normal. Like, at all. Both are dead languages.

Just then, there's a loud bang above me. I look towards the platform and see Sam and Dean shouldering their way in, each carrying two full grocery bags, three in Sam's case. The dark haired brother shuts the door behind him with his foot. I would offer to help, but I figure they look like they've got it under control.

"Just fucking great," I hear Dean growl when he sees me.

"Right back at ya, big boy," I shout as he's coming down the staircase, throwing an exaggerated wink in for good measure. Gotta do my due diligence in pissing him off, right?

Sam says nothing, opting to make a beeline for a different room. I decide to follow him. Him I like. His brother, not as much. We wind up in a full scale industrial culinary kitchen, like full-blown restaurant. It's a big space, complete with locking fridges and freezers, a table, an open pantry, and all the pots, pans, dishes, utensils, and cutlery a chef could possibly need. My eyebrows raise and I whistle in appreciation.

"Nice set up, you got here," I say, hopping up onto one of the counters, swinging my feet as Sam begins to unpack the grocery bag, "So, uh, where is this place exactly?"

"Lebanon, Kansas," he says, "Where are you from?"

Question for a question. I can respect that quid pro quo. Where am I from? Where am I– a blinding stabbing pain fills my head. Like someone took a white hot poker and drove it through my temple. I scream, throwing my arms up to my head trying to protect it from this pain, and end up falling off the counter. Sam – bless him – rushes to my side, and tries to sit me up. I hear thundering footsteps, what sounds like the cocking of a gun. I can't see through the blinding pain and tears pooling in my eyes. I feel Sam pull me against his chest, pressing his hand against my head, holding it steady. A gasp escapes my lips, as the pain abates suddenly, like someone injected me with morphine. I feel my body shudder. I can't stop the lo keening whines spilling from my lips, no matter how hard I clamp them together.

"What the hell happened?" Dean growls.

"I – I don't know," Sam stammers out (same bud, same), "I just asked her where she's from."

The pain in my head has let up enough for me to get some words out, "This … happens when I … I try to remember."

"Remember what?" Dean asks. For once there's no malice in his voice. Congratu-fucking-lations, he CAN be nice. Lemme just get him a gold fucking star.

I twist in Sam's arms to face Dean. He's still holding his gun, but limply at his side.

"Anything," I say quietly, "Anything but my name. I – I know nothing about myself."

Sam and Dean exchange glances. I hate it when they do that, like they know something I don't.

Dean strides over to me and tosses a couple things into my lap. What looks like an iPod with a pair of headphones and a wallet. My hands are shaky as I take them, and open the wallet. There's a driver's license, and a picture of me. My name Elvira A. Castle. My birthday, November 16, 1991; that makes me … what … 26. And an address for Seattle. Apparently, I'm an organ doner too. Besides the ID, there's two cards, a credit card and a debit card. There's a couple hundred dollars in cash. The last thing I find is a faded polaroid of me and a boy. He's got big brown eyes, a sharp strong jawline, high slanted cheekbones, and a faint smirk. He's got his arm wrapped around my shoulders. I flip it over. Written in chicken scratch is 'El and Ry 4ever 2016'. I can't explain the emptiness I feel seeing this photograph. I just know I don't want it anymore. I hold it out to Dean.

"Can you get rid of this?"

He takes it from me, "Do you recognize that cuck?"

I shake my head, "I just – I know I don't want it. I don't know why."

"Your choice," Dean says with shrug. He gets rid of the picture.

"You alright?" Sam asks.

"I'm okay," I say. But I'm not. I have no idea who I am.

I disentangle myself from Sam's arms and stand on still-weak knees. I wait before moving, until my feet feel solid beneath me. Then, I leave the kitchen. Sam calls out my name, but I can't bring myself to respond. My fist is curled around the wallet and iPod like they're some sort of like line. In a way, I guess they are. Carrying me through the bunker, my feet move of their own volition. Somehow I end up in a garage of sorts. Three or four old time-y cars sit collecting dust as well as a couple motorcycles.

My eyes rove over the different cars before finally settling on a black Chevrolet Impala. It's the only car in here that seems relatively dust free. Something deep inside me pulls me over to that car. I walk over to it, open the driver's side, and collapse into the seat. It's almost like I'm on autopilot. I shut the door. For a long while, I stare at the iPod in my hands. I'm not sure if I'm having too many emotions to process or if I just don't feel anything at all. A deep breath seizes my lungs. Right now, I feel like I am not my own.

My fingers unwrap the earbuds from the iPod and slip both nubs in each ear. Instantly, any minute noises I hear, fade into a muffled sort of faded silence. My hand slides to the top of the iPod where the on button is. I turn the device on. The screen lights up, featuring the apple with the bite out of it. An album cover pops up. There's two little kids sitting in a booth at a really old looking McDonalds. It says the song is Time After Time by Iron and Wine. For some reason, I hesitate. My thumb hovers over the white play symbol. Another deep breath seizes my lungs with no directive from me and my thumb collides with the screen.

/Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you/Caught up in circles, confusion is nothing new/Flashback, warm nights almost left behind/Suitcases of memories, time after.../

The music hits me like a sucker punch to my kidneys. At the same time though, I also feel like I'm surfacing after drowning, my lungs greedily filling with air. His voice, the guitar. It all feels so real. It's the first thing that has felt real to me in ages. The music swells into the chorus. My hands find the leather of the steering wheel and I lean towards it. Maybe I'm clinging to the material so that I know I'm real, that this is real, that this isn't some dream that's gone way out of control. My forehead drops and rests on the top of the steering wheel. And I stay like that.

Distantly, through the tidal wave of music and emotions, I hear the car door open. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sam get in the car just as the music fades away. Then it begins anew. He doesn't say anything. He just sits there. And I just sit there, unable to move, unable to speak. The plays again. And then a third time. And a fourth time, before I finally pull the earbuds out of my ears.

"This must be really difficult for you," Sam's voice is gentle.

No shit Sherlock.

"Yes," the word is dry from my dry throat and dry lungs.

"Whatever happens, we'll help you through this," Sam says, "It will be okay, Elvira. We're not just going to throw you out."

My chest lightens a little and I smile, "Thank you."

He puts a hand on my knee. And we stay like that. We stay like that for awhile. It feels good to have someone next to me. I appreciate the human warmth. Eventually though, Sam withdraws his hand. He gives me a warm smile.

"Dean was making burgers for dinner," Sam says, "Come on, they're probably done. Plus, uh, if he finds you in his car, he might kill ya."

He gets out of the car. I follow him. Because what else can I do?


	3. The House Is Empty

**Chapter 3: The House is Empty**

Surprisingly enough, Dean is a good cook. He seemed more of the brawn over brains kind of dude. I sit next to Sam at the picnic table. Dean sits across from us, occasionally giving me a dirty look. Like, whatever dude. I get that you don't like me already. You can go fuck yourself now. As soon as I finish my burger, I swing my legs out of the picnic bench, cast Dean a glare, and then storm out of the room.

"Nice, Dean," I hear Sam snipe as walk out of the room.

I roll my eyes. I wander around until I find myself in the library. My eyes scan the titles aimlessly they land on one title, Night and Day. I pull it off the shelf and settle into a large armchair. Fishing my iPod out of my pocket, I plug my headphones into my ears and I scroll through albums.

I have no idea what to listen to though. These are meaningless to me. Then I find playlists, at least 15 of them. Each carefully named. From _GETAWAY_ to _QUIETLONELYNIGHTS_. The one though that grabs me, is _THISISME_. My chest almost caves in on itself. It's like a little wave from me that remembered me. It makes me feel slightly better. I press play.

Some part of me that I don't understand, mainly because I can't remember anything about myself, is soothed by the music. The playlist is 26 songs. Each song is like a gateway of knowledge. I think I was a very bitter person. Just a hint off the kind of music. _Melanie Martinez, The 1975, Sasha Sloan, Amber Run_ , and _Billie Eilish_. I'm honestly paying more attention to the music than the book, but every so often I'll read a paragraph or two.

There's some stuff about interdimensional travel and feeding life force off it. Really, it makes no fucking sense, but I keep reading anyways. The playlist has cycled through two times and I'm halfway through my third when Sam appears. He looks at me and smiles, going over to the bookshelf and picks a thick dusty book. He awkwardly holds it up. I'm not sure if he's trying to show me the book, or showing me that he's reading it. I raise my eyebrows at him and pull my headphones out.

"Need something?" I ask as if I could possibly provide him with something.

"I was just coming to do some research," he says, then clearing his throat, he adds, "I, uh, didn't know you could read French."

I slam the book shut. Sure enough, now that I'm really looking at it, it's French. Nuit et Jour. I stand up and shove the book back onto the shelf. I'm so angry. I'm so angry that I don't know who I am. I'm angry that I don't know where I belong. And I'm angry that I can read French. Lovely. One more mystery to figure out.

"Neither did I," I growl, collapsing back into the armchair.

I don't realize I'm crying until the tears start landing on my hands, bunched up in my lap. Sam walks over to me, his tall frame shadowing over me. He places an awkward hand on my shoulder. Even though he's literally held me in his arms, this is strange. Mostly because he's not trying to save me from a memory attack. He's trying to comfort me. But I don't know him.

"Dean and I think it would be good to visit that address in Seattle," Sam says, "To try and help you figure out who you are."

I look up at him hopefully, "Really?"

Sam nods, "Yeah, we're gonna leave tomorrow."

"Thank you," I say softly, "Even though you guys live in some weirdo cult dungeon, I appreciate you letting me stay here, and helping me."

Sam chuckles, and pats me on the back, "You're welcome. Get some sleep, Elvira."

He starts to leave the room, his book tucked under his arm.

"Hey Sam," I call.

He turns and looks at me expectantly.

"We need to stop somewhere to get me clothes," I say, "I have money. And I can't stay in these." I gesture to my dirty black leggings and t-shirt. "Preferably, a mall. I don't know where you guys get your clothes, the army surplus store maybe, but fuck that."

"We'll stop somewhere," he says, with a smile, "Goodnight Elvira."

"Goodnight," I say.

I know he told me to get some sleep, but I can't fall asleep. Something keeps me awake, manically listening to the iPod and pacing and reading. Pacing and reading and listening. Until, at some point, I give up on the pacing and reading. I lay down on the floor, staring at the ceiling and listening, and listening, and listening.

It's Dean who finds me in the morning, not Sam. Unfortunately. He nearly trips over me, and spills half a cup of coffee over me. Luckily, it's not too hot. So I just lay there, covered in coffee.

"What the hell?" he barks, "Why the hell are you laying on the floor?"

"Couldn't sleep," my voice is hoarse from lack of use.

Dean rolls his eyes, "Whatever. Sam said you need clothes so we'll be making a quick stop. Be ready in fifteen, Sunshine."

I don't have it in me to make a snarky retort. Instead, I heave myself up and trudge back to the room I woke up in. I snag my socks and boots and sink onto the bed. My hands feel leaden as they pull on my socks, and they seem to get heavier and heavier as put each boot on. My fingers are slow to tie the shoes, like moving through molasses. Now, I just sit on the bed, staring blankly at the wall. Pretty boring stuff.

Suddenly, the music in my ear cuts out. I lift the iPod up to look at it. Dead. I need to get a charger. I sigh, almost in defeat. This day is already off to a shit start. I sit on my bed staring at the wall waiting for one of the brothers to come get me. It's Sam who finally does I-don't-know-how-long later. He pokes his head into the room.

"You ready?"

I nod.

He smiles at me. This weird awkward tight-lipped smile. I know he's trying to make me more comfortable, but really … it just makes me uncomfortable. I stand up. I follow Sam into the garage where Dean is already waiting inside the black Chevy Impala. I climb into the back seat, sitting behind Dean. It makes it difficult for him to see me. Sam takes the passenger side.

"New plan, Sammy," Dean says, banging his hands on the steering wheel, "Not stopping to get clothes. We're just gonna get her home. I mean, she'll have clothes at home. No need. Am I right?"

Sam glares at his brother, "Dean …"

I sink into the seat, staring out the window, "It's fine, Sam. Let's just go."

"What? No bitchy comeback?" Dean said, his voice too cheerful.

Sam huffs passive aggressively. I just don't respond. It doesn't matter to me. I don't even know why I wanted to stop for clothes. Dean's right. The garage door opens, and we whip out of the garage and down a small hidden drive. I take in the scenery. It's pretty barren out hear though. There's not even a building. It only confirms my dungeon theory.

Dean flips on some old school rock. The drive is empty. Nothing happens. We stop for gas. Sam and Dean talk. Something about this kid named Jack being missing. I drift off to sleep eventually. The rumble of the engine is surprisingly soothing. I wake up as we're driving through the downtown of Seattle. I sit up straighter. My chest feels a little lighter, being here. I don't think that has to do with any emotional significance though. I think it's because it's another piece of the puzzle uncovered.

"What's the address?" Dean asks, his tone pissy. Unsurprisingly.

Instead of saying anything, I pull the ID out of the wallet and hand it to Sam. I watch as he puts the address into his phone. And we keep driving. It's about thirty minutes before the car slows down. We pull up in front of a ramshackle house that almost looks like it was plopped down in the middle of the neighborhood. Honestly, the neighborhood itself is pretty white picket fence. Except this one house. That we've stopped in front of. That's not a bad sign at all.

"So, uh, we're here," Sam says, craning his neck around to look.

"Let me guess," I say, leaning over to look out the window at the house, 'It's that one."

Sam presses his mouth into a thin line, "Yeah, that would be it."

"Great, just fucking fantastic," I mutter. Throwing the car door open, I step out into the cool weather. I slam the door behind me and storm towards the house.

It's a small grey single story with two large bay windows on either side of the front door. The roof is sagging in places. The paint is peeling. One of the windows is shattered. The door seems rotted. The yard is overgrown, and growing into the sidewalk. I push open the chain link gate and walk to the front door. When I try to open it, the door doesn't budge. For being so damn rotted, it's sturdy. I don't know what takes ahold of me, but I scream. Not quiet either. A loud shriek of anger and exhaustion and confusion.

"Hey hey hey," I hear Sam come up behind me. He starts wrapping his arm around my shoulders and tries to steer me away.

"No," I shout, "Open the fucking door! I know you can!"

Sam raises his hands in defeat. He gives me a sidelong look of defeat and concern. Then he does as I asked and kicks the door in. I storm inside. I don't know what I'm looking for. Anything. Any sort of clue. Anything that could point me to me. But the house is even worse on the inside than it was on the outside. Nobody has lived here for years. My license is recent though. This makes no sense.

I walk from empty room to empty room. Taking in the filthy decaying floors littered with holes, the grimey walls with their peeling wallpaper, I search. I'm downright desperate. In the kitchen, the sink is rusted, the old refrigerator is open and dead. Everything about this place is dead. I'm not giving up that easily though.

Turning to Sam, I say, "I want to find out about the last people who lived here."

"We'll help you," Sam says, "We're pretty good at getting information. So just leave it to us."

"No, I'm going to be a part of this," I say, "I'm going to find out who I am if it's the last damn thing I do."


	4. Tuesdays, We Wear Plaid

**Chapter 4: Tuesdays, We Wear Plaid**

I'm laying on the backseat when Sam and Dean get back into the car. Both of them slamming their doors in unison. I seat up, looking at Sam expectantly.

"Well, that was a dud," Dean huffs.

Sam turns to me, his brown eyes apologetic, "None of the neighbors seem to know anything about the last people who lived there."

I fold my arms across my chest, "Fine. Then we hit the internet."

Sam nods, "We'll get a hotel room. If you want to get some clothes, I'll take you to do that."

"Are you sure you should be wandering off with her alone?" Dean asks and I swear to God he gives me the side-eye, even though I can't see it.

"I can hear you, you know," I grouse, "It's not like I can do anything. No memory, dickface."

"Dickface, huh?" Dean asks, "I think you should watch your mouth, Princess. Otherwise I'll kick ya to the curb."

I huff and throw myself against the back seat, glaring at Dean. I know I look like a child, but I just can't help it. I remain like that until we get to the hotel. It's a dingy little hole in the wall that's probably crawling with bedbugs and rodents. I shiver at the thought of sleeping in one of those beds. Sam and Dean lead the way into the hotel, each carrying a duffel bag. I stick close to Sam.

The lobby fits in with the outside. The red Turkish carpet is faded and filthy. The front desk looks like it could collapse at any moment. The guy behind the front desk looks decrepit and gross, like a meth head pedophile. He gives Sam and Dean an oily smile. It fits in nicely with his thin greying hair that's been scooped limply back. He eyes me, his cloudy blue eyes sliding up and down my body. I almost grab the back of Sam's plaid, but I stop myself. I'm better than that. I hold my chin up, and look him in the eyes. Weirdly enough, it works. He looks away from me.

"Two rooms?" even his voice is greasy. He looks hopefully at me once again.

Dean glances back at me, a look of understanding passes his features. He leans onto the desk and gives the man a smile that's half charm, half challenge. Honestly, I'm surprised the desk hasn't collapsed from the little bit of weight he's put onto it.

"One room oughta do it," he says, that same smile plastered to his face, "Gotta keep her entertained, if ya catch my drift." He winks at .

I want to be angry at him, to slap him. But I know he's actually doing this protect me. I mean, who would try anything with a girl who's with two guys that are as huge as these two. And it's obvious they're in good shape too. The guy's eyes shift between the three of us, and I step closer to Dean. I grab his jacket in my fists and pull myself flush with him.

"Hurry up, babe," I say, keeping my voice low and seductive, but adding a touch of a whine, "You guys can't keep me waiting all day."

He throws me a wink and grins, "I wouldn't dream of it."

Dean slaps a credit card onto the counter. The man, considerably less friendly, inputs the information on the card. When he's through, he sets two keys on the counter with a displeased frown. That's gotta be good for me though.

"Room 205," he mutters, before turning away without another word.

Dean shrugs with an arrogant smile. He throws his arm around my shoulder and we turn around. I bury my face into his shoulder and giggle teasingly. I almost feel like this is too much, but I really don't want that motherfucker turning up in the middle of the night trying to get into my pants. As soon as we're down the hall, I push myself away from his in disgust.

"Thanks," I mumble.

"Whatever," his voice is about as welcoming as a cactus on a winter night in the desert.

I scoot back towards Sam. The elevator we take to the second floor makes me want to throw up. Not just because of the smell, which is a combination of spoiled milk and rotten fish, or the groaning sounds it makes on its way up. The tight space is what makes me want to vomit. I guess I'm claustrophobic. When the elevator dings and the doors peel open, I nearly tumble out of it in my eagerness to escape.

"What's your deal?" Dean barks at me.

"I … it smells bad," I mutter. Yeah, not telling him about the claustrophobia. Fuck that.

He purses his lips and tilts his head in my direction, "Can't argue with that."

I'm surprised he didn't try. Dean leads the rest of the way to the room, which isn't far. The brass numbers on the door are crooked and the 5 is about to fall off. Dean takes his sweet time opening up the door with his key. Once the door is open, we all shuffle inside. Sam flips the light on revealing the room.

It's pretty plain. It has a tiny kitchen-ish area that has a dinky refrigerator, an old coffee pot that probably won't work, and ancient microwave. There's an old box TV that somehow has a cable box connected to it. There are two twin beds, each covered in a faded red comforter. Between the two beds is a nightstand with a lamp.

Dean tosses his duffle on the bed closest to the door. Sam brushes past me and sets his down on the same one. I guess this means I get the other bed. Collapsing onto the bed, I throw myself backwards. While Sam and Dean get settled I stare at the ceiling. I need a shower. And clean clothes. I think this funk is making my overall mood far worse.

Maybe I just need to feel a little control. And if buying clothing will do that, so help me god, I will spend what little money I have on clothes. Sam and Dean are talking about these characters named Jack and Cas. Neither of whom I've met, both of whom get mentioned quite a bit.

"I need clean clothes," I say softly.

Dean either doesn't hear me or ignores me and keeps talking. Sam though, turns away from his brother.

"We'll go in about fifteen," Sam says, "Is that alright?"

I nod. The brothers return to their conversation. I'm left here. To my thoughts. Again. My mind flashes back to that house. I don't know what we'll discover, but there's this feeling in the pit of my stomach that says whatever it is, won't be good. I want to go back to listening to music, but I need to pick up a charger for my iPod. And a Bluetooth speaker. I know I'm thinking like I'll be with them for awhile, but I don't know how to think any other way at the moment. Nothing is real for me. And these two, even if Dean is an asshole, are the only real thing I have.

"You ready?" Sam's voice jolts me out of my thoughts.

I nod.

"Imma head down the street to the convenience store we passed," Dean says, "You want anything, Sammy?"

"I could use a beer," Sam says, "You want anything Elvira?"

I look at Dean, "The biggest bottle of red wine they have. And some snacks."

Less than enthused, Dean grumbles, "What kind of snacks?"

I shrug, "I dunno. I don't know what I like, surprise me."

Dean stalks off muttering about snacks, and not knowing what to fucking get me. The door slams heavily behind him as he leaves the room. For some reason, I stare at the door.

"Why does he hate me?" I find myself asking.

Sam sighs, "It's complicated."

I snort, "I bet … Let's just go."

We leave the room and Sam locks the door behind us. The walk down to the car is silent, and a little awkward. Not to mention that creepy methaphile eyeing me the whole time we're in the lobby. Which isn't long. But what it lacks in length, it makes up for in sheer hair prickling scream vibes. When we reach the car, I take the passenger side and Sam takes driver.

"So, uh, there's a mall not far from here," Sam says, "Is-"

"That's fine," I say curtly.

The drive is awkward and silent. I'm really not sure why. Sam and I have gotten along just fine over the last day. Maybe without me being so weak and needy, he's not sure how to handle me. Hell, I don't know how to handle me.

The mall is a dome of light in the quickly darkening area. Sam pulls into a spot close to the entrance. As he shuts the engine off, I try to figure out what to say to him. He looks over at me and semi smiles. Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

"Do you mind if I stay here?" Sam asks, looking at the mall like a cocaine addict would a police officer.

My hands twist in my lap, "Would you actually mind coming in with me? I – I don't want to go alone."

Sam smiles, "Sure, no problem." He takes a deep breath. And so do I.

Together we get out of the car and head into the depths. The mall, while not terribly busy, still has a lot of people. Sam keeps pace with me, making sure to stay comfortably at my side. He doesn't say much. I can see his eyes constantly scanning. I don't know what these guys have been through, but it has to be some pretty rough shit. Especially if they're living in a glorified dungeon and dress from the army surplus store. And watching Sam's eyes, constantly looking for some threat to dismantle.

My first stop is a little boutique where I purchase a plain black dress and a much sexier red one. There, I also get a blue slouch beanie. The next store we go into is a lot bigger, and oriented more towards teen and young adult girls. I get some black and grey jogger sweats, a few pairs of black skinny jeans, some loose t-shirts, a couple crop tops, and some plaid button downs. Because – clearly – there's a dress code with these guys. In the body shop store, I buy some shampoo and conditioner that's jasmine and vanilla scented as well as some lotion and body soap of the same scents. Sam ends up carrying bags for me. I didn't even have to ask. He just took them without a word. Weird, but nice. In the tech store, I buy a charger and a decent Bluetooth speaker.

It's here that I run out of cash. There's still stuff I need though. I pull out the debit card from my wallet and ask Sam to borrow his phone. I call the number on the back of the card. The automated system asks me for the card number and the expiration date. Then the system asks me for my pin. My throat closes up. I need to guess. My fingers shake as I type in my birth year digits. That's when the automated system, starts listing off more options and what I can do in my account menu. I breath a sigh of relief. I wait until it finishes listing options. Then I select a balance inquiry. It reads out the number. My jaw drops. Holy. Shit. I am rich. Filthy rich. Well, maybe not filthy rich. But there's five hundred thousand dollars on this debit card just waiting to be used.

"We're good to go," I say to Sam, handing him back his phone.

"There's money on that?" he asks.

If he asks me how much, I'm not going to tell him, better yet … I'm going to lie about how much there is. They don't need to know. I mean, what they don't know isn't gonna hurt them. Especially in this case. I swallow, forcing a small smile on my face. I need to act normal. I take a big breath as inconspicuously as possible and slowly release it through my nose.

"Yes," I reply, "It seems like me with memories had a job. There's a few grand." Well, depending on your definition of a few, that's actually not technically a lie. It's even better that way. The best lies are the ones that are technically true.

We keep going. In a biker store, I get a leather jacket, a pair of overalls, and one more pair of jeans. In a outdoors store, I pick out a body heat reflective down jacket. The shoe store takes me awhile, but I end up getting a pair of black Doc Martins, a pair of sensible black flats, a pair of converse, and a pair of back heels. At Target, I get my hygiene stuff and a backpack as well as a duffel bag. Our last stop is probably the most embarrassing. This one, I ask Sam to wait outside. He readily and awkwardly agrees.

I go into Victoria's Secret alone. There are so many options. So much lace. I get a couple sets of sensible underwear, plain panties, plain but comfortable bras. Then I get some things to feel good in. Some black lace thongs, a black lace bralette, a pastel pink lace one piece, silky white bikini cut with a sheer front panel, a white bra to match. I get a bra and panty set that's deep violet and mostly strings. There's also the crimson panties where the panel over my ass is sheer. The bra that matches that one is a pushup and will make my boobs look fantastic. My favorite thing though is the sheer black robe. There's really no point to it, except when I want to feel particularly sexy. I leave with three bags from there alone.

When I come out, Sam's face is slightly flushed, "Is this it then?"

I nod.

We head back into the outdoors. Darkness has long fallen. We were in there for a couple hours. If possible, Sam is even more awkward now than he was before. The Victoria Secret thing probably freaked him out. Well, I'm sorry. But I'm a female with needs. As we load my bags into the trunk, I wrack my brain for something to say to him.

"Hey Sam," I say softly.

"Yeah?" his voice is strong, but quiet.

"Thanks," I reply, "I know you were pretty uncomfortable, so I really appreciate it."

"No problem," he says. His tone is even, but as he's walking around the car to get in the driver's side, I swear I catch a hint of a smile in the light of the street lamp. You know, I think Sam and I will get along just fine.


End file.
